Entente Cordiale
by EspeonSilverfire2
Summary: England grudgingly tolerates a visit from France in order to make a series of agreements. As usual, friction rises between the two, forcing the Brit to leave and cool off. Meanwhile, France has a few plans of his own... Oneshot.


_A/N- Hi there! This was originally going to be a collab between me and fellow fanfic writer Fobwatch (BritishInvaded). It was supposed to be the same story written from two different points of view. Well, I wrote my half from England's, but since I haven't heard from my co-author for a few months now, I'm guessing the other half will never be written... But I thought it would be a shame to waste what I'd done, and it can be read standalone, so I've decided to put it up here._

_This fic is based upon a piece of news regarding some treaties/agreements signed between the UK and France. If you'd like, please do go and look them up! But we did our research for this, I assure you!_

_**Furthermore- to the guest reviewer who asked how they could be talking about the future: the Entente Cordiale in this fic is a modern-day one that you can easily find online. I believe there was a particularly helpful item on BBC News.**  
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_Oh, and a heads up: I'm from England, so this is written in British English. (Well, it is from England's point of view too!)_

_Disclaimer: I solemnly swear that I am up to no- I mean, I don't own Hetalia. Yeah. That one._

_So, with further ado, please enjoy!_

**ooo**

_**Entente Cordiale**_

**ooo**

_Pumf pumf pumf pumf._

The needle pushed and pulled its way into and out of the square-holed fabric forming a neat row of small red _x_'s. My brow creased in concentration as my finger tugged at the loop of thread connecting the stitches to the needle as it pushed through from the underside, preventing it from tangling. It had started to twist and it would be a bloody nightmare to unpick and unknot if it progressed any further. First rule of cross-stich- keep an eye on the back. A messy underside will make the front look bumpy. And it's unprofessional.

I had been working on this particular design for several days now. It was a complex pattern, so it could take several weeks to finish. More if I became bogged down with other things. And of course I'd have to stop soon anyway, because in a few minutes time, that bloody Frog would be comi-

"'Ello zere, _l'Angleterre_. Is zat your needlework?"

I jumped ten metres into the air, caught by surprise. Typically, my needle, which had been halfway through forming another stitch, twisted in my shaken grip and jabbed into my thumb.

"HOLY SHIT!" I yelled, voice cracking with strain. "Why the bloody hell did you have to sneak up on me you snail-eating wanker? !"

My embroidery slipped off my lap and landed with a soft _thwump_on the carpet. Pretty fortunate, actually, as seconds later, the small bead of blood which had been pooling on my opposable digit trickled down and splashed onto my shirt. If the aida hadn't fallen when it did, I'd have bled onto my work. And I know from experience that blood stains are a real bitch to get out of your sewing.

But damn, now I have to wash it out of my nice clean shirt instead.

Behind me, France was laughing that perverted laugh of his. While my eyes were currently focused on the floor as I bent to pick my things up, I could just imagine him beaming at me with that creepy rapist grin of his. Tosser.

"Because it eez fun to mess wiz your sewing, _non_?" he sniggered. "Besides, you should 'ave been expecting me, _ma chérie._"

I turned around and glowered at him, clutching the needle in one hand and the aida in the other. I sincerely hoped he noticed that the needle was pointing right at him.

"Would you stop using the bloody feminine version of that when you're talking about me? If you must communicate in sodding Frog-speak, then at least get my gender right! I know you're doing it to insult me, wino."

France mock-pouted. If that cheese-eating surrender monkey thought that would get me to apologise, then he was wrong. That only worked when America did it- I mean, that never worked at all on me. I was completely immune to the hurt look and puppy-dog eyes. Completely.

"Why, England, you are always so mean to me! Why can't you ever be nice for a change? Can't we ever get along?"

_Because you're a bloody Frog and the day I get along with you a puppy will die, Hell will freeze over, Italy will hate pasta and Satan will skate to work,_I thought.

Out loud, I simply sighed and retorted, "I'm never nice to you because you're a complete wanker who is permanently in heat, a nymphomaniac, and obsessed with getting into the pants of every country on this planet." I paused for a moment to survey his expression. Unfortunately, since it wasn't a pervy grin, watery eyes or smug, I couldn't read it. I rolled my eyes and let out another sigh. "But… and this is a very big _but_… the whole point of our mini-meeting today is co-operation, so for once I will try to avoid calling you a wanker every five minutes. I'll limit it to every ten instead."

I was a gentleman, so of course I'd attempt to clean up my language for an official meeting, even if it was only between me and Cheesy McWine-Git and had been forced upon us by our bosses.

Ugh, I could just remember it now. I'd wondered why on Earth I'd been summoned to Downing Street, since nowadays I usually just got a phone call. When I'd stepped in and been told, 'OK, I have a job for you. Invite France over and draw up this co-operative treaty', I'd almost lost it. Explained why they dragged me all the way into the city-centre, though. If I'd been on the phone I'd have simply given them a terse reply and hung up.

Oh, I'd argued all right. I'd screamed blue murder at them. But at the end of the day, he's my boss, so I really didn't have much of a choice. Didn't stop me imagining all the charming things I'd have loved to do to him at the time though… Medieval torture anyone? Oh those were lovely, lovely days… Flagellation, the rack, thumbscrews…

I was suddenly broken from my reverie when I realised France was staring at me wide-eyed. It took me a second to register that I had been grinning demonically, fingers curled and emitting an aura that was as black as jet. I must have looked like the devil incarnate. Heh, serves the git right. He needs a good freaking out now and then to keep his libido in check.

I straightened my posture and coughed politely. "Well, moving on then. Shall we begin?"

It seemed to take France a minute to regain his composure before he replied, "Yes, zat sounds like a good idea." He still looked a little wary though. I must've been more sadistic than I'd first thought. I seemed to have scared the chap half to death. Brilliant.

I walked over and left my embroidery on top of the nearby bureau as the Frenchman scooted around the table and took the seat on the opposite side. He bent down and opened a briefcase I hadn't noticed before, rifling through the papers within. Of course, I didn't need to get any paperwork out. I was naturally far more prepared than the bearded git and had already laid everything out on the table.

Finally he pulled out a few important-looking documents and spread them in front of him, snapping his briefcase shut. He fiddled with his cuffs for a moment as I sat back down, and then cleared his throat.

"Well zen, let's get started." He hesitated for a moment, eyes scanning the papers before him, then looked back up and locked his eyes with mine. He seemed to adopt a more formal expression, as if… Oh how did that American fat-arse put it? Ah yes, that's right. As if conducting these negotiations was 'serious business'. Of course Mr Self-Proclaimed Hero frequently misspelt it, sometimes deliberately I gather, but it gets the point across. Of course why anyone would purposefully mangle the English language is beyond me. And yet America does it. Repeatedly. And apparently sometimes with cats.

"I propose zat we agree to an _entente cordiale_, whereby we each agree to 'ave a selection of our soldiers partake in joint training exercises togezer. Are you wiz me so far?"

I cringed slightly at his mangling of the word 'together'. It seemed it was not only America who was intent on ripping apart my beloved words.

I clasped my hands together and stared down at them, pretending to be in contemplation. In reality, my boss had already given me a list of things to say and demand, so this really didn't need any thought. I simply enjoyed keeping the Frog waiting.

Finally, after a long, drawn-out minute, I looked back up. "Mmn. I agree. I suggest maybe, five to six thousand troops?"

France glanced down, scanning his notes, before giving a small nod. "_Oui, d'accord._"

I hesitated for a moment, waiting to see if he would continue. Unfortunately, it seemed he was also waiting to see if I'd say something. An awkward pause filled the room before I broke it with a sigh and a slight grimace. Damn, I guess I'd have to say the next thing on the list. I hated the thought of being the one to effectively suggest surrendering something to the French. It'd be much less of a blow to my pride if he would ask for it and I'd be able to grudgingly agree. Emphasis on the 'grudgingly'.

"Hmm, next item on the list. Nuclear warheads. I-"

Pause.

" I- I…"

I gritted my teeth, trying to spit the words out. Across the table, France cocked an eyebrow. The faintest hint of a smirk twitched at the corner of his lips.

"Well, what eez it, _l'Angleterre_?"

I clenched my fist, feeling my nails bite into my palm.

"I… I propose… to… surrender testing of nuclear warheads. It will all be done in Valduc. From 2015, Aldermaston will instead focus on developing new technology."

France's tiny smirk grew twice as big. And ten times more infuriating. Why did we have to go through this bloody charade anyway? It wasn't as if our bosses hadn't already practically hammered the deal out.

"Waz zat really so 'ard on your poor ego, _rosbif_?" he cackled. I snarled as he broke out into another fit of laughter.

I gave him the death glower for the full two minutes he spent laughing. What would be the best fate for him? Throwing into the Atlantic? Burying in an abandoned coal mine? Drowning in a vat of his own beloved wine? There was always Busby's chair…

Eventually he began to calm down and compose himself once more. Wiping the tears from his eyes (how come they actually sparkled? ! Was he a glittery vampire or something? !), he leaned back in his chair and looked at me again.

"Okay, England. Since it was so… _trying_on you to ask, I will accept your proposal. Now zen, ze next topic eez an integrated strike force. I will make sure zat my aircraft carrier iz compatible wiz your planes, and zen once you decommission your current two, ze new one zat you 'ave planned will be compatible wiz mine. _Tu comprends_?"

Hmm, we'd reached this stage of the negotiation. This was going to be the toughest bit yet. It was also the most important. So far, I didn't have any problems with his suggestion. It was the next part which was crucial. My country had concerns regarding it, and as my boss had so delightfully put it, 'We need France to see our point of view and want to help. You people represent the collective opinion of the populace, while at the same time being independent. Sway his opinion in our favour and we don't have a problem; his country will share his opinion. Understand?'

Ah, psychological warfare at its finest. As someone once pointed out to me, 'Persuade the British populace, and they've persuaded you. Persuade you, and they've persuaded the British populace.' Of course, I'm pretty sure the Frog isn't smart enough to understand such tactics. His only remarkable skills are being able to identify how good a wine is by its smell, and being able to shed all his clothes and put on cat ears and a censorship rose in less than point five of a second.

"Yes, I understand, France," I replied. I seemed to have startled him a little by using his name for once, rather than 'git', 'jerk' or 'berk'. Of course, it was Spy Tactics 101 for if you ever need to parley with somebody. Throw them off-guard first. That way, they can't think straight, and you can smooth-talk your way into or out of anything. Even people's pants. Not that I ever have!

"Now then," I continued, flipping over a page in a small booklet in front of me. The page I turned to had a small map and various lists of information on it. "The next part is the deployment of these carriers. From twenty-twenty, when I've completed my new aircraft carrier, we'll make sure that at all times at least one is deployed."

France nodded. "Very well, moving on-"

"Ah! Wait a second, France!" I interrupted. Bloody Frog. I knew he'd tried to avoid doing any actual negotiating. I cleared my throat and retracted the arm I'd reached out to punctuate my disruption.

The Frenchman looked mildly surprised, and if I was not mistaken, a little edgy. But then again, I've never really attempted to properly read his expressions. If I had my way, I'd never have to read his expression at all. I'd never look at his face.

"I have some issues with this set up," I stated bluntly, folding my arms and settling a serious and steely stare.

France gazed back at me for a long moment, before twisting his wristwatch and clasping his hands together, indicating he was ready for a formal discussion. "_Oui_? What are zese issues?"

"Well," I began, pausing to clear my throat once more. I straightened out a small pile of papers devoted the issue as I continued. "It's with regards to the Falklands."

France immediately became more on edge. I was certain he knew what I was going to say. Well tough, Pepé Le Pew, you are going to hear me out and you are going to agree. Otherwise my fist will connect with your face. Hard.

"What about ze Falklands?" he asked, feigning innocence and pretending he didn't already know.

"You were opposed to me defending them in 1982, and you even sold missiles to the bloody Argentinians!" I made no attempt to keep my irritation in check. Sod formality! "During the thirty per cent of the time my carrier is in for maintenance, I would have to rely on you if they tried to invade them again. And, the way that our agreement is settled so far, means that since it would be your carrier, you could just turn around and say '_non_'!"

I slammed my palms down hard on the table and half rose from my seat. My chest was heaving as I stood there, glowering at him. Hmm, I think I might have overdone it a bit. But when it comes to _him_, it's all too easy to let my temper at his poncy, flowery, smarmy attitude get the better of me.

I didn't bother to check his reaction. After a minute, whatever adrenaline and testosterone had fuelled my actions began to ebb, and I closed my eyes.

"Excuse me. I'm just going to make some tea," I said flatly, before turning away and striding off to the kitchen. I tried to avoid slamming the door on my way out, but failed somewhat.

As soon as I was in the kitchen, I slammed my fists down on the worktop. Damn! I was a bloody gentleman, wasn't I? And I couldn't even conduct myself properly in a formal meeting! I was a disgrace to the British gentry. Stupid Frog. Stupid, stupid, wanking Frog. Sodding git. Tosser. Jerk. Berk. Ponce. Snail-slurping, cheese-eating, wine-guzzling idiot.

There went my foul mouth again. What was the point of even trying to keep it in check? Someday I'd have to accept that it wasn't the Victorian Era anymore. I couldn't act civilised in front of everyone and then be a perverted deviant behind closed doors, unlike then. Not that I'd ever admit to the latter part.

Oh who was I kidding? Everyone knew it. It was all trying to keep up appearances. But these days…

Ugh. I started to get a headache.

I reached up and pulled open one of the cupboards, fumbling around inside for the aspirin. Damn it, I was out. Ibuprofen then? I pulled out a small pile of boxes and began checking the labels on each one for some kind of painkiller.

Just then, I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I was startled and yelled out, "Wah!" whilst simultaneously scattering the packages to the floor. Great, that was twice now.

I span around, expecting the bearded sex-obsessive. Instead, I saw the green fuzzy form of one of my magical friends.

"Mint Bunny!" I beamed, reaching out and pulling him closer, cuddling him and stroking his fur. To be honest, I say 'him', but I haven't got a clue what gender he/she/it is, and I am most certainly _not_ going to check.

While he was being clutched tightly to my chest, he wriggled around and managed to poke his head out to look up at me. "You seemed upset so I came to cheer you up, England!"

My green eyes started watering at that. Of course Mint Bunny would come to cheer me up. _Of course_. But it still touched my heart each time. It was comforting to know that there was at least one person in this world that didn't hate me or hold some sort of grudge against me.

Speaking of people who might hold grudges. What would America think of my deal with France? I'd always had a special relationship with him, especially when it came to intelligence, so what would he think of the part where I'd be sharing some of my intel with the Frog? Would his feelings be hurt? Would he be angry? Gah! I couldn't tell!

I let out a sigh of frustration, fingers clinging tighter to the winged rabbit in my arms. He squeaked a little and then, wide-eyed, asked, "What's wrong now, England?"

I looked down at him, calming myself with his innocent, fluffy face. My brows remained knitted in concern, however. "I was just worrying about America. He might be angry at the agreement I'm having to make with France."

Mint Bunny blinked at me for a moment, before looking away in thought. His tiny little brows where pushing together as he strained his brain. Bless him. Little chap was honestly trying to help me out.

"I think," he chirped, looking back up at me, "that you should just give him a burger! He's too dumb to think about intelligence once his mind's distracted with food!"

I blinked at surprise. Did Mint Bunny just insult America? Smashing! And when I thought about it, his plan might actually work. After all, America did love burgers. And he did have a short attention span. Not to mention the fact that they always say the fastest way to a person's heart is through their stomach.

"That's brilliant, Mint Bunny! Excellent work." I tickled him under the chin as a reward while I praised him. He squeaked in happiness. Aww, little blighter really was absolutely adorable.

"I have to go back to the meeting now," I told him. He looked a little disappointed, but nodded anyway. I gave a final scratch behind the ear before letting him go. He fluttered off to go re-join Tinkerbell and the others.

As I stepped back towards the doorway, I suddenly realised that I hadn't made any tea. What good was an alibi if you forget to maintain it? I facepalmed. Just what exactly had I done with all that spy training? Flushed it down the john last time I went to spend a penny most likely.

Well, I suppose I could always tell him that I'd run out of tea and had to order some more. Yes, that could work. I was on the phone to the local corner shop. Yes.

I slid my mobile out of my trouser pocket and held it in my hand as if I'd just finished making a call. Brushing a couple of stray green hairs from my chest, I opened the door and returned to the meeting.

"Sorry about that," I said, scratching my head and looking down as I returned the phone to my pocket. "Would you believe it- I'd run out of tea. So I just had to make a quick phone call to the shop to order a delivery…"

I trailed off as I looked back up. When I saw it, I couldn't quite believe my eyes. My mouth hung slack as I froze up. Part of my mind was screaming that this was a clear sign to 'Start. Running. Now.' But I simply couldn't move.

"_Oh hon hon hon hon…_" cackled France as he stood on top of the table, wearing nothing but cat ears and a whole bouquet of roses. His eyes glinted with evil intention.

"Oh shit."

He grinned. It was creepier and larger than the Cheshire Cat's.

"If you will not co-operate wiz me, _l'Angleterre_, zen I 'ave no choice but to do zis ze old fashioned way…"

I gulped. I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights. I knew very well what he meant by that. There was only one thing I had to do now. Defend my vital regions.

As he sprang off the table and leapt towards me, I started to scream.

"AH! GET OFF ME! GET OFF YOU DAMN WANKER! EEK! NO! NOT THERE! NOT BIG BEN! DON'T DO THAT! FINE! I AGREE TO ALL YOUR TERMS! I AGREE, YOU HEAR ME? ! I AGREEEEEEEEEE-!"

"_Oh hon hon hon hon hon hon hon hon hon…"_

And so, once again, another meeting between countries of the world ended in failure.

THE END.


End file.
